Harry Potter and the Memory Palace (II: The Hunt)
by Catherine Cook
Summary: Harry's new guardians are the toasts of the wizarding world. But Voldemort is gathering strength, and preparing to strike....
1. The Last Day of July

(Author's Note: I've introduced three new characters, of my own creation, to the story. For those wondering about the glacially slow, GoF-like pace of the last few chapters of Part One: I was just trying to set the scene for the events to follow. Things will move quite a bit faster from now on. I've updated this chapter a touch as well.  
  
As usual, aside from the three new characters, everyone else is owned by either Jo Rowling or Thomas Harris. Enjoy! CC)  
  
==========  
  
His guitar slung across his back, Bruce Blake climbed into the side door of the old VW van with the unsteady gait of someone whose kidneys were busily processing a pitcher's worth of Guinness. His head was reeling, but he was at peace with the world on this calm night in late July. His band, The Blake-Smiths, were the up-and-coming rage of the old-time music circuit in America, and so far they bid fair to do equally well in the British Isles.   
  
There had initially been some jealous whispering behind the scenes that Blake's success had been helped in no small part by his being the son of Donald Blake, the fiddling United States Senator from West Virginia, but the Senator's son had quickly put paid to those insinuations with a display of sheer, unadulterated talent. If anything, his father's fame was an annoyance to Bruce; it was why he chose to play guitar instead of fiddle, though anyone who heard him pick up a bow swore that he was, if anything, more talented on the violin than on the six-string.  
  
"How much did we get tonight?", he asked Bonnie Smith, his banjo player, band manager, driver and fiancé -- not necessarily in that order.   
  
Bonnie pushed a strand of straw-colored hair away from her face with one hand; the other was holding like grim death onto the steering wheel. "About fifteen hundred pounds," she said proudly.  
  
"Wow! Half of that had to be the CDs."  
  
"It was," Candy Rowley interposed. Candy was their fiddler, who was known for her long black hair as much for her excellent command of cross-tuned Ed Haley pieces. "We sold all but five of our CDs and most of our tapes. Tomorrow we'll have to put an order in with Richard over at Insti-Dupes to burn us a few hundred more."  
  
"Can he get them to us in time for Cropredy?" 'Cropredy' was the annual August reunion concert festival of the great British folk band Fairport Convention; it was a sign of the rising status of The Blake-Smiths that the Fairporters had invited them to play there as one of the guest bands from America.  
  
"I think so. I'll make sure he knows to overnight them."  
  
"Good." Bruce looked out the window of the van. "Look at that," he said, pointing at a cluster of oddly-dressed people at the side of the road. "Kinda early for Halloween, don't you think?"  
  
"Hey, wait, one of them looks hurt," Bonnie said, slowing the van down to get a better look. And in fact the black-garbed crowd did look somewhat agitated, standing around another of their number who was lying on the roadside. "They might need help."   
  
"Pull over, then," said Bruce.  
  
But before Bonnie could do so, there were four loud pops, one after the other. All four tires of the van had somehow been blown out.  
  
"What the hell!?", said Bonnie, who lost her grip on the wheel as the blowouts shook up the van.   
  
Then suddenly, the van stopped. Just died.   
  
And shortly thereafter, after the black-garbed group stormed into the van, so did the members of The Blake-Smiths.   
  
Their mangled bodies were found, inside the wreckage of the van, the next morning.  
  
  
  
It was Harry's fifteenth birthday, and he was happier than he had ever been on any of his previous fourteen birthdays.   
  
Not only was he free of the Dursleys forever, not only was he living with the most supremely fascinating, not to mention _cool_, people he could imagine, but he was, for the first time in his life, the guest of honor at a genuine, honest-to-goodness, do-it-up-brown birthday party, and nearly all the people he cared about were in attendance -- and that was a great many. Best of all, they were all now friends of Dr. Reader and Lucy as well.   
  
Resplendent in white tie, champagne flute in hand, he weaved through the throng on the grounds of Offhand Manor with a smile on his face, nodding and smiling to everyone. He saw Hermione waltzing with Dr. Reader while the Weird Sisters played a slow number. Ron was being towed graciously about the lawn by Lucy, who didn't seem to mind it when Ron stepped on her toes, which he did about every sixth step. Even Professor McGonagall, who looked quite striking in an off-the-shoulder black velvet gown she had picked out in a shopping trip with Miss Stellanova, was present; she was being spun about the dance floor by Dumbledore himself, smiling gaily and laughing at some witticism of his.  
  
Word of Dr. Reader's miraculous curing of the Longbottoms had spread like wildfire through the wizarding world. He was the hero of the hour, and if there were some wizarding factions -- such as that led by the Malfoys -- that sought to undermine his status by pointing out his Muggleness, their voices were drowned out by those of the Longbottoms' friends, of which there were many, and of the Longbottoms themselves.   
  
Frank Longbottom, working through Arthur Weasley, was able to persuade the Ministry of Magic to allow St. Mungo's to hire Dr. Reader as a visiting healer-teacher for one day a week. Frank's son Neville volunteered to assist Dr. Reader as his intern, and a more devoted and eager-to-learn intern could not be found; Neville worshipped the ground on which Dr. Reader walked. He spent nearly as much time at Offhand Manor as did Harry himself, in addition to frequently accompanying Reader and Stellanova to their Harley Street office. Dr. Reader had taken it upon himself to tackle Neville's problems with memory, and to show Neville, as he showed Neville's parents, how to construct a memory palace; he did so, and with such success that Neville was now able to commit virtually anything to memory. This won Dr. Reader even more supporters.  
  
Had he been able, Cornelius Fudge would have protested, if not blocked, Dr. Reader's appointment. But shortly after the Longbottoms' recovery, Fudge was himself attacked and killed by, of all people, Duncan MacNair, keeper of the dementors at Azkaban. MacNair's attack, made in broad daylight in the presence of several shocked witnesses, was very closely followed by MacNair's own suicide -- but not before he paraded up and down Diagon Alley showing off the Dark Mark on his arm and boasting of the power of his master, Lord Voldemort.  
  
With Fudge and MacNair gone -- and with MacNair's having openly boasted of Voldemort's return -- Dumbledore's hand within the Ministry was strengthened considerably.   
  
Arthur Weasley, with the backing of Dumbledore and the Longbottoms, took over Fudge's position as Minister. His first move, as recommended by Dumbledore, was the removal of the dementors from Azkaban. His second, also recommended by Dumbledore, was the secret granting of the Ministry's official imprimatur to Hagrid's and Madame Maxime's diplomatic mission to the giants. His third act, taken with Dumbledore's blessing, was to put Auror surveillance teams to work on monitoring the activities of those persons and families who Harry had named as being allied with Voldemort. Mad-Eye Moody, who had returned from his retirement especially for this task, asked for and recieved permission to lead that particular group of Aurors.   
  
All in all, despite the shocking loss of Fudge, things were looking better than they did a month earlier.  
  
Which is why it was a great shock to everyone that night at his birthday party when Harry, right in the midst of a dance with Ron's mum, clapped his hand to his forehead and fainted.  
  
  
  
Wormtail, once Peter Pettigrew, was shivering, though the cavern was quite warm. It had to be kept warm, because Nagini, Voldemort's snake, didn't like the cold. And Nagini was the only living thing for which Wormtail's master, Lord Voldemort, had anything resembling affection.  
  
Voldemort was angry tonight, this last night of July, 1995.   
  
Very angry.   
  
Wormtail knew this because Voldemort was not speaking, except in the softest of tones. The tones he used only when he was about to fly into a murderous rage.  
  
"Have my servants lost their wits in the long years of my exile?", Voldemort murmured, sitting upon the ivory-white throne which was not made of ivory; his spiderlike hands ran over the arms of the throne in slow, deliberate circles. "Have they totally lost the idea of restraint?" His snakelike nostrils flared, and his gaze fell upon Wormtail's cringing form. "Am I only to be served by cowards and fools?"  
  
Wormtail realized that Lord Voldemort expected him to speak. "Perhaps they were too anxious, Master," he said, fighting to keep his voice level. "It has indeed been a long time since we could move openly against your foes, Master. Perhaps the strain of waiting was too much --"  
  
"'The strain of waiting'?", mocked Voldemort incredulously. "'The _strain_ of _waiting_'? My servants -- my oh-so-_loyal_ servants -- all were forced to endure all this time INSIDE THEIR PHYSICAL BODIES!" Voldemort's deathly-white face had by now turned a purplish hue; he was in the throes of another rage fit, and there was no telling what he might do.  
  
"Yes, Master," Wormtail cringed, surprising both himself and Voldemort by daring to continue speaking, "all of your Death Eaters that lived did so inside their physical bodies. But, as you well know, the worst torments do not touch the body, only the spirit. MacNair spent long years among the dementors, longer than anyone. Could it be that their mere presence had done to him over time -- w-w-what it did, what _they_ did, to the prisoners of Azkaban?"  
  
Voldemort considered this. "That is a possibility, Wormtail," he mused, his anger subsiding. "MacNair was our link to the dementors, and understood them better than any of us. I can see how even the strongest soul could crack in the constant presence of those for whom souls are food." His fingers drummed on the arms of his throne. "However, that does not explain, or excuse, the unauthorized killing tonight of those Muggles." He suddenly rose to his feet. "Bring me the ones who participated in the attack. They need to pay the penalty for insubordination."  
  
Wormtail shivered as he scurried out of the chamber. At least it would be they, and not he, who would have to suffer the Cruciatus Curse tonight.  
  



	2. The Deadly Mistake

Harry's eyes opened wide. He was in his bedroom, Dr. Reader and Dumbledore standing close by. He furrowed his brow experimentally, winced at the residual pain, and slowly looked about the room.  
  
The Weasleys and Hermione were standing in a corner, and Professor McGonagall and Lucy were by the door, ready to go and fetch anything that either Dumbledore (in McGonagall's case), or Reader (in Lucy's) might require.  
  
"How long have I been out?" Harry asked.  
  
"Only about five minutes," Dumbledore said reassuringly. "You didn't miss anything juicy downstairs."  
  
Harry smiled weakly at that, and made an attempt to sit up in bed; the effort made grimace. Dr. Reader, noticing this, dextrously slid his arm under Harry's shoulders and gently, easily lifted him up into position. Professor Dumbledore proffered a cup of hot chocolate, from which Harry gratefully and greedily drank as Dumbledore held it to his lips. Strength flowed back into Harry, crowding out the pain, and he sat up unassisted.  
  
"Sorry about ruining the party, everyone," Harry said after he finished the hot chocolate. "It's never been this strong before." His face took on a thoughtful look. "But somehow -- I don't think this was directed at me. I think it was just spillover."  
  
Both Reader's and Dumbledore's left eyebrows rose up in exactly the same fashion. "Tell us more, Harry," Dr. Reader asked in that quietly compelling voice of his.   
  
Harry thought hard. "It seemed as if he was angry -- very angry -- but at his followers, not me. Some of them had acted without his consent, or even his knowledge, and done something he felt to be stupid. I thought he might have been reacting to the McNair incident, but I got the strongest sense that he was angry about more things than that."  
  
"We know from past experience that Voldemort's mere anger, whether or not it's directed strictly at you, can trigger the pain in your scar," Dumbledore acknowledged. "But it's a new development for you to be able to sense his thoughts when he is enraged. Let us hope that this is not a two-way street."  
  
"Then I'll just have to avoid getting angry," Harry joked lightly, eliciting a smile from Dumbledore. "Seriously, though, Professor -- I don't think it operates that way. For one thing, I don't think I could ever get quite as angry, even once, as Voldemort seems to get on a regular basis. I'm getting the strongest impression that he felt that having a body again would solve all his problems, and he's extremely angry that it hasn't."  
  
There was a period of silence as everyone pondered that bit of information.  
  
Dr. Reader spoke next. "One of Voldemort's problems, the caliber of his followers, is, I suspect, totally of his own creation," he said. "Voldemort sounds all too like the rather tiresome standard-issue breed of megalomaniac, in that neither his ego nor his paranoia will allow him to suffer the presence of anyone intelligent or resourceful enough to constitute a possible threat to him. The unfortunate result, for him, is that he finds himself surrounded by incompetents whose few talents lie in the fields of flattery and deception."  
  
Dumbledore gave Dr. Reader a smile of approval. "The Malfoys, Crabbes and Goyles would all seem to give weight to your diagnosis, Doctor. I wonder, though: what did his followers do tonight that would have caused Voldemort to be so angry at them?"  
  
"I think I know, Headmaster."   
  
Arthur Weasley, wearing plus fours, had entered the room.   
  
Mr. Weasley was holding a small portable radio that Dr. Reader had given him to use in his Muggle Studies program. His face was grim as he turned up the volume for everyone to hear: "...again, as was reported earlier in this programme, Bruce Blake, the son of United States Senator Donald Blake, was one of three persons found dead inside a Volkswagen van approximately one hour ago. Foul play is suspected..."  
  
Everyone in the room fell silent.   
  
"...the deceased were all members of Bruce Blake's musical group, The Blake-Smiths, an old-time American traditional music group that was making a name for itself in the United States, " the news reader said. "Senator Blake, accompanied by his wife Pamela, has already left Washington and is flying to London at this hour. Members of the US Federal Bureau of Investigation are also currently en route to the UK to assist the British authorities with their investigation of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Mr. Blake and his companions. And that's the news this hour..."   
  
Mr. Weasley switched off the radio.  
  
"How do you know that this was the work of Death Eaters, Arthur?", Dumbledore asked quietly.  
  
"Because of a little item that, thanks to some quick work with Memory Charms on the part of some local wizards, won't be making the Muggle news."  
  
Professor McGonagall was aghast. "The Dark Mark appeared in the sky?", she whispered.  
  
Mr. Weasley's voice was nearly as soft as Professor McGonagall's. "Yes."  
  
Lucy spoke up for the first time. "What a bunch of idiots," she said. Noting the surprised stares she recieved, she hurriedly amended: "No, no -- not you all. I'm talking about Tom Riddle, Jr.'s people."  
  
"No wonder Voldemort's angry," Lucy said, walking towards Harry's bed. "He still can't be strong enough to go toe-to-toe in open battle with anyone, and his followers have the dumb luck, or the awesome stupidity, not only to kill some people, but to pick as their victim someone whose father has the pull to bring the entire Muggle law enforcement machinery of two very powerful countries right down onto Voldemort's neck. Even blind pigs find acorns every once in a while, and when you're about to have the entire English, Scottish and Welsh countryside turned upside down by hundreds of FBI and MI5 and MI6 members, not to mention Scotland Yard, _something's_ going to shake loose."  
  
"I agree with Lucy," Dr. Reader said, looking around at those assembled in the room. "I also hope that this doesn't have negative consequences for the wizarding world as a whole. I expect that the Muggle officers of the law, in view of the nature of these deaths, will be taking a rather dim view of anything out of the ordinary that they may run across. I don't know if it will quite be 'shoot first and ask questions later', but I would not rule that out as a likelihood."  
  
"I've already thought about that and taken appropriate measures," Mr. Weasley replied, grimly but firmly. The role of Minister may have been suddenly thrust upon him by Fudge's death, but he had definitely shown himself equal to the task. He held up a pager; one of the first things he did as Minister was to secretly issue Muggle-style pagers and cell phones to various Ministry agents. "Trained Ministry personnel are already at the scene, and have been for some time, scouring away anything we think it best that the Muggle authorities not find. That's in addition to casting the Memory Charms. I've informed them that they are to notify me of any developments in the situation."  
  
  
  



	3. The Office of Non-Mundane Matters

(Author's note: Everyone you recognize is either JK Rowling's, Thomas Harris', or not a fictional character. The only new person is Dan Steele. I'm not making any money off of this. CC)  
  
  
Washington, DC in August is a very muggy and unpleasant place to be, as befits the fact that it was built atop hastily-cleared-and-filled coastal swampland. August 1995 was no different. As he sat in the Oval Office, President Clinton, reading through the folder his aides had put together on the Blake-Smiths' deaths, once again thanked the Lord he had been born in the age of air conditioning.  
  
Bruce Blake and his bandmates had been killed, Bill Clinton mused as he ran his fingers through his graying hair, for no particular reason that he could see. Blake's father was a powerful man, and a powerful politician, but not the sort to inspire foreigners' rage the way a Jesse Helms or a Newt Gingrich might. Nor would an American terrorist, a Timothy-McVeigh-type, be likely to want to attack Senator Blake by killing his son. This just seemed to be the sort of shockingly random attack that sent chills up everyone's spines: random, and therefore unpredictable, unpreventable.  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the office intercom. "What is it, Betty?" he said. Betty Currie was his secretary, the first black lady -- not "woman", but "lady" -- ever to be secretary to a President of the United States of America, and had been with Clinton ever since he was Governor of Arkansas. "Is Newt still threatening to shut down the government?"  
  
There was a chuckle at the other end. "Of course. Same old, same old. But this isn't about that. Dan Steele is here to see you."  
  
The president's face grew grim. Dan Steele was the head of the Office of Non-Mundane Matters, one of the black-budget agencies he had laughed at -- that is, until he found out just why they were necessary, and why they had to stay black-budget. Steele was the only person outside of a Cabinet or family member that could demand, and get, instantaneous access to the Chief Executive. Something very bad must be up if Steele was involved. "Send him in, Betty," he said.  
  
Dan Steele strode into the Oval Office, his legs all spindly. Steele was a tall man, but frail-looking; he topped the president by two inches, but weighed a good fifty pounds less. He glanced at both the Marine guard and the Secret Service men in the room, then held his hands up. "Mr. President, please order them to frisk me," he said in his Missouri accent undimmed by long years on the Potomac, "and then please send them out of the room."  
  
Bill Clinton nodded; he had seen Steele do this six times before in the three years since he became president, and each time it signaled that Steele needed to talk to him about something that was beyond hot. "Go ahead, gentlemen. You know what to do."  
  
They did indeed, and they did it with extreme thoroughness. Portable fluoroscopes, devices that sensed the presence of bomb parts, were passed over and around Steele's body. His jacket and shoes were removed, then returned to him once they were found to be empty of anything that could be used as a weapon. He was patted down from bald spot to big toe three successive times. Even the inside of his mouth was checked, to ensure that no weapons were hidden there.  
  
Finally, satisfied that they were leaving the President alone in the presence of an unarmed man, the Marine guard and Secret Service agents left the Oval Office.  
  
Steele sat down with an audible sigh of relief, gratefully accepting the scotch-and-soda the president had poured for him. He hated the friskings, but they were necessary if he wanted to speak with the president about above-top-secret matters. No one besides Bill Clinton could be allowed to hear what he was about to say in his briefings. No one.  
  
"So what brings you here today, Dan?" said the President as he resumed his seat behind his desk. "And why do I suspect it has to do with the Blake-Smiths' deaths?"  
  
Steele smiled thinly; he might not always agree with his politics, but Bill Clinton wasn't a Rhodes Scholar for nothing. "You are correct, sir."  
  
The president matched Steele's thin smile with one of his own. "I thought as much. The killings don't make much sense in the normal scheme of things. But I take it they just might, in the _abnormal_ scheme of things -- which is why you're here."  
  
Steele would have laughed, if the circumstances weren't so grim. "Too bad you're pure Muggle, Mr. President," he said. "You could have made one hell of a wizard."  
  
"Sometimes I wish I _was_ a wizard, Dan," Bill Clinton said, sipping at his own drink, a Jack-Daniel's-and-Coke on the rocks. "I'd like to be able to wave a wand and make Ken Starr and Rupert Murdoch be transported in their underwear over to Queen Maud Land." His Arkansas accent, much like Steele's Show-Me-State accent, was twangy enough to make non-Southerners take him for a dumb hick; this was useful to both men, as they both found it convenient to be underestimated by their enemies. "So what's up? Death Eaters again? Somebody shoot off the Dark Mark in the sky after Blake and his band members were killed?"  
  
Steele looked at the president with something approaching awe. "Are you _sure_ you're not a wizard, Mr. President?"  
  
Bill Clinton laughed out loud. "I wouldn't be fighting for my political life right now if I were, Dan. I just try to remember what you tell me when we have these little chats." He leaned back in his chair. "So what does the new guy over at M.O.M. -- Weasley, isn't it? -- have to say about this?"  
  
"They're just as perplexed as we are, sir. They do have one fact that we didn't, however, and that's the knowledge that, although the killings were the work of Death Eaters, they were apparently done without Voldemort's say-so."  
  
The president's eyes narrowed. "Really?"  
  
"Really. Apparently, whenever Voldemort flies into a rage, it affects Harry Potter."  
  
"Yes." Bill Clinton knew, from Dan Steele, all about The Boy Who Lived.  
  
"And now, ever since Voldemort's return, Potter's been able to sense, not just Voldemort's anger, but the reasons for it." Steele shifted in the leather chair. "The night the Blake-Smiths were killed, Potter's scar began to hurt him, so badly that he fainted. It only hurts him when he's in Voldemort's presence, or if Voldemort is angry. Turns out that Potter was able to sense that Voldemort was toweringly hacked off over something his followers had done without his permission. Weasley put two and two together."  
  
"Hmmmm." The president pondered for a moment. "Who do we have that we can send to England right now?"  
  
"Our best man is Jack Crawford. You might remember him from his straight job as head of the FBI's Behavioral Science unit. He's been at loggerheads over there with Clint Pearsall and Paul Krendler and Louis Freeh; they're political ass-kissers and he got where he is on merit. Plus, he suspects that Krendler forced an agent named Clarice Starling out of the Bureau, and Starling was Crawford's favorite recruit. He'll be happy to find an excuse to get out of this snake pit for awhile."  
  
The president pondered a moment. "Clarice Starling. She was the one who nailed Jame Gumb, right? With help from Dr. Lecter, before he escaped?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"She was a good person, Dan. Too bad we had to lose her." The president stood up. "Go do what you must and what you can, Dan. You have _carte blanche_. Give Jack my regards."  
  
The two men shook hands.  
  
  



	4. True Confessions

(Standard disclaimer: everyone in this chapter, with the exception of the Blake-Smiths, belongs to either Jo Rowling or Thomas Harris. Enjoy! CC)  
  
Life regained its usual rhythm, after a fashion, in the days following the initial disruption caused by the murder of the Senator's son and his companions.   
  
Dr. Reader and Lucy, alarmed at Harry's vulnerability to Voldemort-caused pain, took turns in aiding him in the construction of his own memory palace, in order to provide him a mental refuge while under attack. This was difficult, because, as they both found, Harry's mind was structured so that he could not be hypnotized under normal circumstances, and hypnosis was an important time-saving step in embedding the foundations of the memory palace deep in the psyche.   
  
Finally, under the effects of the strongest hypnotic drugs available, Dr. Reader and Lucy were able to help Harry begin construction of his memory palace. To reassure Harry, and in case any malevolent entity might try to take advantage of Harry's hypnotized state, they insisted on having at least one of his wizarding-world friends present for each of these sessions: Dumbledore when they could get him; McGonagall, Ron, Neville or Hermione when they could not.  
  
Sirius would gladly have been at Harry's side for these sessions, but he barely had time to recover from his semi-starvation before he was off on a mission for Dumbledore. He was around just long enough to meet Dr. Reader returning from St. Mungo's and discuss Harry's future with him. Lucy sent Sirius off with some vitamins and energy bars, and let him know that whenever he wanted, he could always find a warm bed and a hot, rat-free meal at Offhand Manor.  
  
Reader and Stellanova's home, in fact, was becoming the _de facto_ outpost of wizardry in the mundane world. It took no time at all for most of the Ministry members to receive their invitations to visit Offhand Manor, and in turn the doctor and Lucy spent a good deal of time in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and even Hogwarts, where they met with all of the faculty members.   
  
Two weeks after his birthday, Harry was upstairs at his new computer, typing in draft form his History of Magic essay for Professor Binns -- he found that it was much easier to compose his essays on the PC first, before attempting to commit them to parchment -- when his daydreaming mind went back to that first meeting between his new guardians and the Hogwarts staff.   
  
Professor McGonagall was no problem; she and Lucy found themselves to be kindred spirits, almost like sisters. McGonagall offered to personally tutor Lucy, and was particularly pleased to find that Lucy had an aptitude for transfiguration. And McGonagall found herself fascinated by Miss Stellanova's wardrobe; soon Lucy was dragging the blushing professor on trips to London and Paris so that Lucy, by way of compensating McGonagall for her tutoring, could fairly smother her in Givenchy.  
  
With Dumbledore and McGonagall won over, the rest of the staff followed suit in short order. Professor Snape was, as would be expected, the last real holdout, but a private talk with Dr. Reader rendered him oddly docile, albeit still suspicious. Harry grinned to himself about that. Dr. Reader's total lack of fear must have put the wind up Snape, he thought; Snape's not used to people who don't hate or fear him, so it puts him off-balance.  
  
Harry heard a series of light taps at the French windows. He turned around and, as expected, saw Hannah hovering outside, clutching a message. Hannah was Lucy's owl, a beautiful snowy one like Hedwig; as he had promised, Harry, using some of his Gringotts money, had bought Lucy her owl and wand and study-books.  
  
Harry opened the French windows to let in Hannah. She fluttered in, hooted a greeting at Harry, then flew downstairs to find Lucy. He closed the windows again and went back to his essay:  
  
"...Arthur the Angry's place in wizarding history was assured when, as a result of losing a chess match to Nigel Linde in 1398, he not only tipped over the chessboard and threw it on Nigel's hearth-fire, he set fire to his soon-to-be-ex-friend, his wife and their house and barn, throwing in their neighbors' barns and livestock for good measure. Only the quick application of Mass Flame Freezing Charms, followed by Mistress Linde's dumping the contents of a hog-trough on Arthur's head, prevented a disaster..."  
  
Another series of taps sounded. This time, it was Hedwig herself, accompanied by Mischa, Dr. Reader's own snowy owl. Thoroughly modern Muggle that Reader was, he couldn't resist the romanticism of using owls as letter carriers; he had purchased Mischa in Diagon Alley, and was soon using her for all of his non-urgent wizard correspondence, though he had convinced Dumbledore and McGonagall to carry pagers and cellphones in case of emergencies.  
  
Harry opened the windows once again. Mischa flew in first, dipped her head to Harry in acknowledgement, then flew on down the stairs. Hedwig lighted on the edge of Harry's desk and dropped off her letter, then gracefully floated over to his shoulder, nibbling playfully at his ear.  
  
Harry reached for the letter and opened it neatly with the Spyderco Civilian Dr. Reader had given him for his birthday. It was a note from Dumbledore himself.  
  
_Dear Harry,  
  
A Mr. Jack Crawford, of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation (and, more importantly, of the US Office of Non-Mundane Matters, the American version of our own Ministry of Magic), will be coming to Offhand Manor shortly. He will be there to talk to you regarding your impressions of Voldemort's reaction to the actions of some of his followers on the night of July 31.  
  
Lucy and Marcus may wish to discuss this further with you.  
  
Very Truly Yours,  
  
Albus Dumbledore_  
  
Harry re-read the letter slowly. Something must be up, he thought; it doesn't seem like he totally trusts this Mr. Crawford. Letter in hand, he started towards the door -- only to be met by Dr. Reader and Lucy, each of them holding a parchment letter.  
  
"Harry," Lucy said quietly, "there's something we have to tell you."  
  
"Is it about Mr. Crawford?" Harry asked, indicating the letter in his own hand.  
  
"Yes." Lucy sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, while Dr. Reader pulled up one of Harry's chairs and sat in it. "You'd better sit down, Harry."  
  
Something tingled in Harry's spine. "What is it? Is something wrong?"  
  
Lucy laughed sheepishly. "Not really... it's just that I knew Jack Crawford a long time ago, under my real name."  
  
Harry nodded; he assumed that both Reader and Lucy had changed their names in order to escape the past described in the now-burned dirt dossier of Uncle Vernon's.   
  
Lucy continued speaking. "I used to work with Jack in the FBI. He liked me, but he didn't like Marcus here, because Marcus had done some pretty horrible things in his past."  
  
"And I want to remind you, Harry," Dr. Reader smoothly cut in, "that my past is over and done with. Neither I nor Lucy would ever harm you in any way. Albus knows that, or else he would never have let you stay with us."  
  
"Dumbledore knows all about your past?"  
  
"Yes, he does, Harry," Lucy said gently. "And it's high time you learned, too. First off," she said, shifting on the bed to face him as he sat next to her, "I wasn't born in Kentucky, I was born in West Virginia. My real name is Clarice Starling."  
  
"Clarice Starling?" The name struck a chord inside Harry; he delved into the library of his newly-built memory palace, and soon found the reason why. "You were the FBI trainee that stopped that serial killer, Jame Gumb. And you did it with the help of..." His voice faltered as he slowly turned towards the man he had known, up until now, as Dr. Marcus Reader.  
  
"Yes, Harry." Dr. Reader's face was solemn, but not unkind. His eyes glowed bright red. "I'm Hannibal Lecter."  



	5. The Addams Family

(Hello, everyone! As usual, JK Rowling's people are hers, Thomas Harris' people are his.   
This chapter was initially, as typical with me, put up in a bit of a rush, and the characters   
got more than a little out of control. I hope this revision fixes things. Thanks to all,   
especially TiaRa'Hu and Anti-Fleur, for their advice. CC)  
  
No one spoke for a long time after that. Starling and Lecter watched Harry closely, waited   
for his response to their announcement.  
  
For his part, Harry didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he _could_ say anything.  
  
Hannibal Lecter.  
  
Hannibal Lecter.  
  
_Hannibal Lecter!_  
  
Even the wizarding world knew about Dr. Lecter, the genius murderer and cannibal. It   
was popularly assumed that he was an untrained wizard-gone-wrong, for no mere   
Muggle, it was felt, could have pulled off his brilliantly hideous crimes. Even the   
American wizarding authorities, which had been secretly trying to aid the FBI, found him   
nearly as hard as Voldemort himself to track. And here he was, Harry's guardian.  
  
Harry suppressed the urge to scream.  
  
It was Clarice who broke the shroud-like silence. "Well, he hasn't tried to kill us yet, so   
that must be a good sign," she said, a small smile on her face.   
  
Another long silence.  
  
The woman Harry had known as Lucy Stellanova looked him straight in the eye, her sky-  
blue eyes meeting his emerald green ones. "Want to know how we came to be here? And   
why Dr. Lecter is no longer the man he once was?"  
  
It was tough to do, but Harry made himself speak. "Yes, please."  
  
Starling relaxed her somewhat tautly-held body. "For starters, aside from our names and   
my not being from Kentucky, everything else we told you was true. We just left out a   
whole bunch of stuff. Dr. Lecter can tell you about that."  
  
The man who Harry had known as "Dr. Reader" took the hint. "I suppose I should start   
with my childhood. I was born in 1938 in Lithuania..."  
  
It was a grim story.   
  
Dr. Lecter was the son of a Lithuanian count whose title went back hundreds of years. His   
mother was herself highborn Italian, of the Visconti family. They were rich and happy --   
until their home was caught up in the crossfire of World War Two. When Hannibal was   
six, his home was destroyed, and his parents killed, by German mortar fire as the Nazis   
fled. A small band of German deserters came, rounded up the orphaned children of the   
area, and started to eat them one by one, once the food ran out that February of 1945.   
Hannibal's younger sister, his beloved Mischa, was among the victims, and Hannibal   
himself would have soon followed had not Allied troops rooted out the Nazi deserters.  
  
His early experiences had made him nihilistic -- he didn't believe in God, for instance, or   
at least not a just God; a just God would not have let scum like the deserters torture, kill   
and eat children. Rejecting the concept of a just God forced him to develop his own   
version of morality, which for many years was tinged with the bloody satiation of his   
own dark urges; he rationalized his crimes with the excuse that his predations were   
insignificant compared to Jehovah's, whose sense of cruel irony and wanton malice was   
beyond measure.  
  
He had found his way to America, received his medical degrees, and built a reputation as   
a brilliant, if unorthodox, practitioner, a man of high learning, exquisite taste, and sharp   
tongue, which he often unleashed on those of his fellow doctors who were less than   
competent.   
  
And he had, secretly, killed over twenty people.  
  
The law finally caught up with him when he made a slip-up: his last victim, a wealthy   
child molester named Mason Verger, clung to life, maimed and crippled. Dr. Lecter was   
caught and imprisoned.   
  
Eight years into his imprisonment, Jack Crawford, head of the FBI's Behavioral Science   
unit, sent Clarice Starling to interview him. The twenty-five-year-old Starling was the   
most promising of Crawford's recruits for the class of 1988. She managed to pierce Dr.   
Lecter's armor, and got him to offer her information and advice. But Paul Krendler,   
Starling's immediate supervisor, stepped in and manhandled the investigation, giving Dr.   
Lecter the chance to escape -- which he did, killing several more persons in the process.  
  
Some months after Lecter's escape, the very married Krendler started letting Starling   
know, with increasing fervor, that he wanted her to have sex with him. Starling refused,   
and her career promptly nosedived, until it found its nadir in the aftermath of a botched   
drug raid. The raid would have gone far worse if not for Clarice's quick thinking -- and   
shooting -- but the politicially well-connected desk jockey Krendler wanted her broken.   
Dr. Lecter, however, came to her rescue, snatching her from her Virginia home hours   
before Krendler could have her cashiered and arrested.  
  
At this point, Dr. Lecter paused and smiled; he apparently was reliving his triumph over   
the boorish Krendler. Harry took advantage of the lull to ask a question: "Why did you   
save Clarice, Doctor?"  
  
The self-confessed murderer of dozens smiled ruefully. "For several reasons, not all of   
which were apparent to me at the time," he said. "The first was that Clarice was, and is,   
one of the finest people I have ever met. The world is simply a better place with her in it.   
The second has to do with what a famous Muggle author named Hannah Arendt called   
'the banality of evil.' She used the phrase to describe how normal humans could do such   
horrible things as help Hitler build and run the death camps, but I also see another   
meaning to those words." He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes meeting Harry's full-  
on. "I used to find some glamour, some stylishness, in my predations. I thought I was   
being so dashing and clever and cute. But I eventually came to the realization that such   
things as murder were, in fact, quite banal, and most murderers themselves, far from   
being glamourous and superior persons, were in fact among the most inferior people one   
can imagine. The Ted Bundys and Juan Coronas of this world are losers, not winners;   
they chose to resort to crime because they were inferior, not superior, people."  
  
"And the third reason?" Harry asked, holding Dr. Lecter in his gaze.  
  
"Oh, that was one I didn't admit to myself, or Clarice, for the longest time." The doctor   
glanced over at Starling, and smiled. "I had fallen in love with Special Agent Starling.   
But I was not going to force myself on her. I would help her escape from Krendler, set   
her up with a new identity, and give her the option of working with me in a London clinic   
as my assistant, but I would not force myself upon her. It was a very happy day for me   
when she, of her own free will, let me know that she welcomed and encouraged my   
attentions." Lecter and Clarice gazed at each other, their faces reflecting a shared   
contentment.   
  
Clarice took up the story. "We both decided that our clinic should specialize in caring for   
children. We did this partly because of the suffering we both had endured as children, and   
also as a way to sublimate our own desire to have children, a desire which we never dared   
fulfill." She paused. "Never, that is, until you came along, Harry."   
  
Clarice held out her hands to Harry; he was surprised to see them trembling. "Harry, I   
want you to know that -- that we care about you more than you realize," she said, her   
voice breaking. "Both Hannibal and I... we want you to be happy, safe and free, and we   
want you to know that we care about you... but if you don't want to stay here with us..." She   
paused again, trying to get herself back under control; a tear made its way down her   
softly curved cheek. "...that's OK, too. We'll let Mrs. Figg know that she can come for   
you."   
  
Harry looked at the faces of his guardians: Dr. Lecter's, solemn and quiet; Clarice's, sad-  
eyed but determined to do as Harry wished, even if it ripped her heart out. He knew   
somehow, just as "Dr. Reader" had told him in the restaurant carpark those many weeks   
ago -- weeks that seemed like lifetimes, so much had happened during them -- that he had   
nothing to fear from either of them.  
  
He balanced what he had heard of Lecter and Starling, versus what he had seen of them   
personally: The miraculous curings of the Longbottoms, their many kindnesses towards   
the wizarding world, and their own treatment of him -- which was never anything less   
than kind, patient and affectionate.  
  
And he made a decision, then and there.  
  
"I'm staying, Clarice," he said, hugging her to him fiercely, holding her as she sobbed   
tears of relief and happiness.   
  
He felt Dr. Lecter's arms envelop both of them, and, though the doctor did not cry as   
Clarice did, he could feel the doctor's whole body shake as the three of them held each   
other in an unbreakable embrace.  
  
"That settles it, then," said Dr. Lecter, releasing them from his arms. "We are a family."  
  
"Addams Family?" laughed Clarice through her tears.  
  
Harry pulled back from her, studying her with a mock-critical eye. "Well, you're about   
the right height for Morticia, but the hair's all wrong," he said. "And Dr. Lecter doesn't   
have any exploding train sets or cigars."  
  
The doctor smiled. "Pyrotechnics was never my department, Harry." His face grew   
solemn once again. "However, before, Jack Crawford gets here, we should let you know,   
in detail, what I did. I want you to make your decisions with your eyes open, and in full   
possession of the facts -- Crawford will be regaling you with the goriest ones, in any   
event."  
  
Harry nodded. "I understand. Though it's not Mr. Crawford that I'm worried about, right   
now."  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyebrows went up. "What worries you, Harry?"  
  
Harry's gaze took in both of his guardians. "Ron, Fred and George wouldn't mind too   
much -- in fact Fred and George would think it was pretty cool, they have warped senses   
of humour." He smiled ruefully, and Dr. Lecter and Clarice shared his smile; they had   
both already been at the receiving end of some of the Weasley twins' more innovative   
pranks. "But Sirius is going to have a_ fit_, if he ever finds out."


	6. The Hall of Taste and Reason

(Forgot to add the disclaimer, so here 'tis: In this chapter, everyone here belongs to either Thomas Harris or Jo Rowling. I'm only borrowing them for awhile. And I'm not making any money off of this. CC)  
  
Later that night, Harry lay face down on his bed, trying to sort out his whirling thoughts and feelings.   
  
He passionately wished he could do a Memory Charm on himself. He wished he could go back to the way things were, when he didn't know who -- or what -- Dr. Reader and Lucy (for that is how he still thought of them) really were.  
  
It wasn't that he was afraid of them harming him -- that wasn't the issue here. It was whether or not it was right for him to be with them, whether his continued residence at Offhand Manor would constitute a tacit approval of their pasts.  
  
Harry sat up and grinned half-heartedly at that last thought. Before meeting Reader and Lucy, he would have phrased that thought in a much simpler fashion. Perhaps some of them is rubbing off onto me, he thought -- and then his face darkened again.  
  
Why does Dumbledore trust them? he asked himself as he fell back down on his bed. Dumbledore trusted far, far too much for Harry's liking. He let Snape, an admitted Death Eater, teach at his school. He accepted Sirius' statements of innocence before anyone else would. He let Hagrid, a half-giant of the most despised type, stay on Hogwarts' staff. And he allowed Remus Lupin, a known werewolf, to teach at Hogwarts...  
  
Harry suddenly realized that he was making arguments of behalf of Dumbledore's generosity with his trust.   
  
Sirius _was_ innocent, Hagrid was kind and honest, and Remus, werewolf that he was, was still the kindest, gentlest and wisest person Harry knew outside of Dumbledore himself. Even Snape, the worst of the lot, had gone out of his way to save Harry's life more than once, even though he hated Harry with a passion that the young wizard could scarcely understand.   
  
Lecter and Starling most certainly did not hate Harry -- rather the reverse, he thought. They really did treat him as they would a beloved son. Not by coddling, the way the Dursleys coddled Dudley, but by challenging him to excel at whatever he turned his mind towards doing.   
  
And he enjoyed it immensely; he worked harder during his summer "holiday" than he ever did at Hogwarts, and he loved every second of it. It helped that both the doctor and Clarice took an active interest in magic; they often studied alongside him, though Lecter had absolutely not a spark of magical talent himself. But they both were very able scholars, and their techniques, Muggle though they were, were still applicable to the study of magic. Now that Harry had begun building his own memory palace, he found himself able to organize and summon all the information in his head, even that from Professor Binns' supremely boring lectures.   
  
The thought occurred to him that he might very well be Head Boy by the time he left school -- an astonishing prospect. But an even-more-astonishing thought occurred: that he really didn't care whether or not he became Head Boy. He was already learning to measure himself by his own standards, standards far higher than the official ones in either the mundane or the magical worlds.   
  
What was it that Dr. Reader -- Dr. Lecter -- had said to him, a few weeks ago?   
  
He searched through the corridors of his memory palace -- a place he intentionally modelled after Hogwarts, except that it was much brighter and airier, and the corridors stayed put -- went into the Hall of Taste and Reason, and heard Dr. Lecter himself, in white tie, say the words: "The first step in the development of taste and reason is to be willing to credit your own opinions." Not to accept them blindly, mind you, but to see them as being worthy of examination and scrutiny, and, if they passed muster, of eventual acceptance.   
  
The acts of questioning and crediting one's own opinions were, in Harry's mind, inextricably linked.   
  
The process sounded to him to be indistinguishable from growing up.  
  
Harry was already learning to credit his own opinions in the field of taste. He found himself to be fond of early twentieth-century composers such as Gershwin and Sibelius and Prokofiev: music far different from the chamber music that was Lecter and Dumbledore's shared taste.  
  
It was now time for him to credit his own opinions in the fields of reason and morality.   
  
These opinions would, he knew, eventually diverge wildly from those held by Reader/Lecter -- if they didn't do so already. But, he also knew, that this divergence would not upset Dr. Reader in the least. It would please him, in fact -- so long as Harry would be willing to submit them to the intense and thorough examination that the doctor and Dumbledore could do so well. A peer review of one's psyche, Clarice called it.  
  
Except that it was being done by people -- Dumbledore, Lecter, Clarice -- who were so advanced in their fields that they literally had no peers besides themselves.  
  



	7. Crossing the Pond

(Standard disclaimer: Thomas Harris' characters are his, Jo Rowling's are hers. Any real people you might recognize are themselves. All else belongs to me. But you already knew that. Historical note: the Concorde was, of course, still up and running in 1995, when this takes place. It may be up and running again very soon. CC)  
  
  
Transatlantic flights are tedious, even on the Concorde. But Jack Crawford was on official US government business, so he had to use official US government means of transport. Besides, he hated Floo travel and his long-distance Apparating skills were rusty; he didn't want to embarrass the bureau, and himself, by getting splinched somewhere around Marble Arch.  
  
The in-flight modem service was far too slow for his liking, so he downloaded and printed off the information he needed at an Internet kiosk in Dulles while he waited for his flight. (The information that he needed from the Muggle world, that is; he already had several copies of the Daily Prophet stacked neatly in his briefcase.) He had just finished printing off the last London Times article when the boarding call for his flight rang out over the loudspeakers.  
  
The in-flight meals on the Concorde were a rarity for airline food, in that they actually verged upon the tasty. But Crawford's ability to enjoy life had been seriously diminished in the course of his late wife Bella's terminal illness. Clarice Starling's having been ground under Krendler's slimy heel, and then her sudden disappearance before Krendler could slaver over pictures of her being led off in irons and an orange jumpsuit to a federal penitentiary, finished off what little capacity for enjoyment he had left in him. He consumed without savoring the chicken Cordon Bleu set before him; he hadn't eaten anything yet that day, and only his sudden drop in glucose level reminded him of the need for sustenance.  
  
He pushed aside the empty tray and opened his briefcase. When he was sure no one could see, he managed a quick glance at the article and accompanying photos adorning the front page of the topmost Daily Prophet.  
  
"MUGGLE MAGICIAN" DR. READER DOES IT AGAIN, read the headline. Below it was a lengthy article on how a certain Muggle psychiatrist named Dr. Reader, already famous for his restoration of sanity to Frank and Alice Longbottom, had just worked similar wonders on other victims of Lord Voldemort and his minions.   
  
It was also noted in the article that Dr. Reader was the new guardian of The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, freeing him from the clutches of cruel Muggle relatives. Dr. Reader's assistant and companion, one Lucy Stellanova, was also profiled; she was shown in one of the pictures as well, her right profile held resolutely towards the camera.  
  
With the patience of those who feel they have nothing left to lose, and the marinated-into-the-bone discipline of a model FBI man, Crawford continued to look at the image of a smiling, talking Miss Stellanova. He waited, and waited, and waited some more. He was waiting for the magically-captured image of her to turn towards him and show her left cheek.  
  
A flight attendant walked by, and Crawford was obliged to feign an active search for a lost something-or-other in his briefcase, keeping one eye focused on the Daily Prophet photo.  
  
Suddenly, there it was. Her image turned and showed Crawford, just for an instant, her left cheek.   
  
Just as he expected, there was a mole on it, high on the cheekbone. The mole of the type the French called "Courage".  
  
Crawford slammed the briefcase shut.  
  
=================  
  
One minute Sirius was in dreamland, human, happy, and chatting with the most hypnotically beautiful woman he had ever met; the next he woke up to find himself in Regent's Park, in dog form, being gently prodded by an old homeless Muggle woman with a carrier bag.   
  
"Don't mind me, ducks," she said, squeezing next to him on the park bench. "I just needs to rest me weary legs, is all." She patted him with a grimy hand wrinkled and worn from years spent out of doors. She then rummaged around in her carrier bag, and pulled out a ham sandwich. "Got this from a friend of mine at the pub up the road," she said fondly. "I'll let you have part of it."  
  
Sirius accepted with a quick, happy bark. As he bolted down his portion, he made a mental note to find out where this woman normally stayed, so he could return the favor with one of Reader's and Lucy's delicious creations.  
  
That brought him back to his dream. It was the same one he'd been having for some weeks now. A dream in which Lucy Stellanova figured prominently.  
  
Sirius put his head between his paws. Lucy was out of his reach; she already had a perfectly good lover, thank you very much, and she had absolutely no interest in trading him for a convicted murderer on the run. Sirius was not going to be a homewrecker, even on the off chance that Lucy would welcome his overtures.  
  
Besides, Sirius told himself, he was just reacting to his being starved for love, or even human contact. It'd been such a long time since he'd ever had a girlfriend, a real girlfriend; there were a few one-night stands with some charitably-minded librarians, but being an escaped convict was not conducive to forming long-term romantic relationships. And then, to fall half-dead from hunger, only to wake up in the care of the most beautiful woman in existence, the woman who was his godson's guardian... no wonder his heart ached like a schoolboy's.  
  
The Muggle woman looked at him concernedly. "You all right, ducks?" she said. "That sandwich agreeing with you?" Sirius turned his caramel-colored eyes to her and nodded, then nuzzled her as she stroked his neck. "Poor thing. Tell you what: why don't you come with me down to the pub? We'll see if Bill'd be willing to get you a doggie-dish of ale or summat."  
  
This sounded very good indeed to Sirius, and he barked his approval. Maybe a quick pint -- or rather, dish -- might help get his mind off of Lucy. Tail wagging, he fell into step beside the homeless woman as she rose up and walked off down the street.  
  
  
============  
  
Some distance away, in Dr. Reader's Harley Street clinic, Neville Longbottom studied the tip of the hypodermic needle with a critical eye, slowly pressing the plunger until he was rewarded with the sight of a clear drop. A drop at the tip meant no air bubbles existed that could be inadvertently injected into a patient's bloodstream. This was exceedingly important, as air bubbles in the bloodstream could trigger deadly heart attacks.   
  
Dr. Reader had just started allowing him to give injections to his patients, both at St. Mungo's and at Harley Street, and Neville wanted to show the doctor that he was worthy of his trust. He was already working at the doctor's side as his pill-dispenser, measuring out the medicines Dr. Reader prescribed, and doing so with a deftness and precision that would have been impossible for Neville less than two months earlier.  
  
Before him, on the examination table, was a little Muggle girl of six years of age. Her eyes were frozen in the stare that is the hallmark of the catatonic. She was strapped to the table with velvet-lined restraints of strong leather; this was an unfortunate but necessary precaution, as she tended to spend her brief periods of activity in mutilating whatever she could get her hands on, even if it was only her own self.  
  
The little girl's name was Joanne, Joanne King, and she lived in Camberwell. Joanne's mother had brought her in for treatment of her catatonia, and, though she would not say it, for independent, professional confirmation of the physical and sexual abuse she strongly suspected was being meted out to Joanne by Joanne's stepfather.  
  
Neville was careful not to unneccessarily touch Joanne as he injected the sedative-hypnotic into her veins. As much as his sympathetic and kind nature made him want to hug the poor suffering child, that would not be at all professional. Furthermore, if Joanne was indeed being sexually abused, any touching that reminded her of that abuse would set back her treatment indefinitely.  
  
The injection finished, he smiled what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring smile at the little girl on the table. She looked so small, so frail, so helpless, he thought. How could anyone dare to harm such a little one as this?   
  
He turned quickly away from the child, so that she would not see the anger that suddenly darkened his face, and spent a few seconds composing himself. Then he moved to the wall next to the table, and pressed the intercom button.   
  
"Dr. Reader," he said in a voice that was already a close echo of Reader's in terms of calmness and resonance, "your next patient is ready."  



	8. The Anti-Magus

(Chapter 8 - or Chapter 20, depending on how you want to reckon this critter - is here at last. :-) As always, all the major players belong to either Jo Rowling or Thomas Harris. The occasional Real World Person might put in a cameo. (Hi, Bill!) I invented some minor characters (most notably Dan Steele and the Blake-Smiths). Aside from that, the plot's the only thing that's mine. CC)  
  
  
Mr. Crawford showed up on the morning after they had received Dumbledore's messages announcing his imminent arrival.   
  
Dr. Lecter and Clarice were inspecting the courtyard and grounds behind Offhand Manor, making sure all the video cameras were functional, well hidden and protected from attacks magical and mundane. The various security systems, always of the best Muggle items available, had already been upgraded considerably, and augmented with magical protections, since Harry had taken up residence.   
  
Thus it was that Lecter, Clarice and Harry were wearing devices that vibrated against their respective skins whenever anyone came within 15 feet of the grounds.  
  
Harry happened to be in his room when he felt his vibrating alarm go off. He ran to get his Invisibility Cloak; he had a feeling he would need it. By the time he was downstairs, the doorbell had started ringing, and Lecter and Clarice were at the door monitor.  
  
Lecter nodded approvingly when he saw Harry with the cloak. "Put it on and go into the corner by the bookcase. Don't take it off until I or Clarice give the word. Clarice and I will be conspicuously unarmed, on the off-chance that this might help convince Crawford of our benignity. Vibra-page Dumbledore immediately and be ready to use the Disarming Spell."   
  
Harry did as he was bid, and settled into position by the bookcase, hand on his wand, as Clarice hit the intercom button. "Hello, Mr. Crawford," she said with a calm that Harry wondered if she really felt. "Professor Dumbledore told us to expect you."  
  
There was a cynical laugh on the other end. "So he did. So he did. Open up, Starling. We've got a lot to talk about."   
  
The door lock made a snick as the lock was turned off.   
  
With Dr. Lecter standing close, Clarice stood back to open the door. A sad smile crossed her face when she saw Crawford reach for his wand; as she and Lecter had figured, Jack was in no mood to be reasonable.   
  
Even as she spread out her arms and opened hands in a gesture of reassurance and peace, Crawford, pointing the wand directly at her, yelled "STUPEFY!"  
  
That was enough for Harry, hiding and invisible on the other side of the bookcase. He immediately hit Dumbledore's speed dial number a second time on the pager and wished with all his might that the headmaster was available.  
  
Lecter caught Clarice as she slumped to the floor, but Crawford roughly snatched her out of his hands and backhanded the doctor onto the couch, sending him sprawling and temporarily helpless.  
  
"I've waited years to do this, you murdering son of a bitch," Crawford gritted loudly through clenched teeth. Again he raised his wand high.  
  
"AVADA KEDAVRA!" he shouted.  
  
A green rush of death issued from Crawford's wand, found and enveloped Dr. Lecter -- and promptly dissipated into nothingness, leaving Lecter unharmed.  
  
Crawford was so shocked he dropped his wand.   
  
In the meantime, Harry, who had been silently berating himself for not anticipating Crawford's willingness to use the worst of the Unforgivable Curses, stepped forward from his hiding place and put a Stunning Charm of his own on Crawford. Crawford slumped to the floor.  
  
Harry dragged Crawford over next to the sofa and picked up Crawford's wand, sticking it in his sleeve. Then he turned his attention elsewhere.  
  
"Are you all right, Doctor?", cried Harry, helping Lecter to his feet. "That spell should have killed you!"  
  
"Quite all right, Harry," said the doctor, shooting his cuffs. "I had actually anticipated both his spell and its failure to affect me."  
  
Harry stared at him. "You _knew_ that the Killing Curse wouldn't hurt you?"  
  
Lecter smiled. "I didn't know that for sure, but I was secure enough in my belief to risk appearing totally unarmed before Crawford." He indicated Clarice's prostrate form with a slight motion of his sleek head. "But let's do something for Clarice first, before I tell you about why I did what I did."  
  
"Oh -- right," Harry said. He turned to Clarice, pointed his wand, and said "Ennervate!"   
  
Clarice slowly began to stir.   
  
"Urrrgggh," she said, shaking her head groggily as she raised herself up to a sitting position. "So this is what it feels like to be Stunned. I feel like I just drank six Alabama Slammers and threw them all up." She looked over at Crawford's unconscious form. "Looks like it worked out just as you thought it would, darling."  
  
"Indeed it did," Dr. Lecter replied. He helped her over to the couch, placing her next to Crawford. "Everything went exactly to plan. Harry, not knowing the depth of Crawford's emnity towards me, was not anticipating that Jack would attempt something as vile as the Avada Kedavra, and so was not prepared to stop Crawford. Crawford, for his part, was all-too-ready to kill me, but not to kill you. And I now have confirmation of something that I have suspected about myself for some weeks now."  
  
"Which is?" asked Harry.  
  
"That he is that great rarity among humans," said a voice behind them. "He is an Anti-Magus."  
  
Professor Dumbledore had arrived at last.  
  
=======  
  
The five of them were sitting in the study, drinks at their elbows, talking animatedly.  
  
Crawford had been released from the Stunning Charm, and his wand restored to him, but Harry was keeping an eye on him nevertheless. However, it seemed as if all the fight had gone out of Crawford; the anger was replaced by a sense of puzzlement.  
  
"Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance, Lecter?", he asked, sipping at his bourbon-and-branch.   
  
"Because I don't operate that way any more, Jack," Lecter replied. He took a sip of his Lillet before continuing. "That's why Clarice and I were conspicuously unarmed when you arrived. Harry was in hiding, but his main role, though he didn't realize it at the time, was to observe what was happening and to summon Dumbledore -- and to curb you when you got out of hand."  
  
"'Curb' is right," Jack said, smiling ruefully. "Haven't been hit by a Stunning Charm like that in ages." He looked over at Harry. "And to think you're barely fifteen. I can see why Voldemort fears you." He turned back over to Lecter. "Which reminds me: Why aren't you on Voldemort's side?"  
  
Lecter made a face. "Jack, you're letting your emotions run away with you again. I can't believe that the head and founder of the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit can be this relentlessly obtuse."  
  
Clarice chimed in. "Jack, remember what you liked to tell your students? 'Assume' makes an ass out of you and me." She smiled broadly, the fire in the study's fireplace making her eyes shine like sapphires and her teeth like pearls. "Boy, you have _no idea _how long I've waited to have the chance to use that line back at you." She turned to smile at the doctor. "But I'm forgetting myself. Please continue, Doctor."  
  
Hannibal Lecter, convicted murderer, cannibal and genius, graciously nodded towards his lady love before turning back to Crawford. "Think, Jack. Even at my worst, what were my limits? What were the things I did _not_ do?"  
  
Crawford's lined, thin face, aged before its time by sorrow and frustration, lost some of its knife-edge bitterness for a moment as he pondered the doctor's query. "You didn't molest your victims, and you didn't usually torture them."   
  
Lecter's eyes gleamed redly as he held Crawford in his gaze. "What else?"  
  
It took Crawford a while to answer the doctor. "You wound up singling out those people who some might consider to have deserved death: child molesters, corrupt businessmen, the world's low lifes."  
  
"And?"   
  
"You went out of your way to avoid harming those people --" Jack resolutely avoided looking at Clarice, but everyone in the room knew to whom he referred "-- who you saw as having good qualities, such as honor, taste and intelligence."  
  
Lecter nodded. "Precisely. And what do we know about Voldemort?"  
  
Crawford was silent for a time. He knew what he was going to say. So did Lecter. So did everyone else in the room.   
  
It hurt Crawford like hell, but it was the truth.  
  
"Voldemort seeks out the very persons you despised," he said, in a choking voice. "He does not value honor and competence -- or if he does, only in the breach. He needs to bolster his own ego by surrounding himself with idiots and scum, persons to whom he can feel superior in every way. In fact, he behaves the same way Stalin did: whenever any of his inner circle gets to be too smart or too independent or too competent, he liquidates them."  
  
There was another deep silence in the room.  
  
"Well done, Mr. Crawford," said Dumbledore, speaking for the first time since his arrival. "It's very hard to face one's preconceptions head-on, even with the weight of evidence at one's disposal. Whatever Dr. Lecter did in his past life, he was not the villain that Voldemort was, and is."  
  
Clarice broke in again. "Look at the evidence, Jack. Has Dr. Lecter killed anyone since he and I hooked up? No, or else you'd know about it. Has he done good things, for both the mundane and wizarding worlds, since his escape? Yes, as the Daily Prophet clippings you have are showing you. I know it's tough for you to accept, Jack," she said, leaning forward in her chair, "but he really has changed, and for the better."  
  
Crawford looked around the room, his gaze lighting onto various persons in turn. "Pardon me for not being quite ready to believe that," he said, in a growl that made Harry think for a minute of Mad-Eye Moody, "but I promise I won't try to kill him any more, unless he screws up and I catch him at it."  
  
Dr. Lecter's face broke into a broad smile. "That will do, Jack. That will do."  
  
  
  



	9. No Turning Back

(Standard disclaimer: Thomas Harris owns the good doctor and Clarice; Jo Rowling owns Harry, Dumbledore and anyone else you recognize. CC)  
  
"Hold that arm straight out, Harry... yes, just like that. Very good!"  
  
Harry Potter, Clarice Starling and Jack Crawford were down in the shooting gallery of Offhand Manor. Dumbledore and Lecter had gone off to St. Mungo's on an errand, and Clarice, eager to show off her skill as a trainer, was putting her ward through his paces with the Colt .45. So far, Harry was performing with flying colors.  
  
"Clean head shots, every one," she said proudly as Harry lowered the gun, its magazine having been emptied into the cardboard target. She turned towards her former mentor. "What do you think, Jack? Should we pack him off to MI5 or MI6?"  
  
Jack grinned, his first geniune smile in ages. "They don't deserve kids like Harry. I'm taking him back with me to Quantico."  
  
"Would you two terribly mind if I made my own career choices?" Harry replied in mock irritation as he loaded a fresh magazine into the Colt. "I might just decide to be a tramp and live under a bridge by a motorway."  
  
"Or a Quidditch star," Clarice chaffed.  
  
"That, too." Harry set the gun down on the table. "Reminds me: You haven't seen Clarice on a broom yet, Mr. Crawford."  
  
Crawford's eyebrows went up an eighth of an inch. "Clarice can ride a broomstick?" He had heard, of course, that Starling had turned out to have magical talent, but, even after seeing her demonstrate a few spells, was still having a hard time believing it.  
  
"She sure can," rejoined Harry cheerfully. "Though she's not _quite_ as good as me on it, being a decrepit old woman and all."  
  
"Watch who you're calling _'old'_, boy," Clarice replied in kind, rubbing her hand on his tousled hair. "Come on upstairs, Jack, and I'll show you what we mean."  
  
=======  
  
The events immediately preceding Dumbledore's and Lecter's departure for St. Mungo's had proved enlightening to all concerned.  
  
Dumbledore had explained, as they sat in the study, that an Anti-Magus was to magic what lead shielding was to radiation. Most magics simply didn't affect them. Some of them, Dr. Lecter being one, could be magically transported, but only by the direct action of a witch or wizard; they could not use Floo Powder, or Portkeys, or brooms. Lecter's researches in Madam Pince's collections gave him the idea that he might well be something beyond either Muggle or wizard, and his survival of the Killing Curse proved him to be correct.  
  
Anti-Magi were very rare indeed; there were only about two hundred known and documented ever to have existed. For good or ill, no potion could affect them, no transfiguration would succeed on them, no curse would work on them. They could only be affected indirectly by magic, such as in the case of a practical joke visited upon the good doctor by the Weasley twins when he visited The Burrow, when the contents of a non-magical pail of water were magically tipped onto Dr. Lecter's head. (The man the twins knew as "Dr. Reader" took it in stride, and later got his revenge by surreptitiously introducing Fred and George to the delights of Muggle itching powder when they visited Offhand Manor; the twins were scratching themselves for hours.)  
  
It was agreed upon by all parties that "Dr. Reader's" status as a Anti-Magus should be kept a secret; should Voldemort or his Death Eaters come calling, it would be quite helpful for them not to know this. Having dealt with that issue, the headmaster and the doctor left for St. Mungo's, leaving Clarice, Harry and Crawford to their own devices.  
  
After coming upstairs from the shooting gallery, Harry went up to his room to find his broom.   
  
"So tell me, Clarice," Crawford said, when he felt Harry was out of earshot, "do you love him?"  
  
"Which one, Jack?" Clarice replied, looking him with a sardonic smile on her face.   
  
"Don't play games with me, Starling. You know who I mean."  
  
"Actually, I love both of them, Jack. Very much." She looked him straight in the eye. "And I love you, too, you old craggy coot, but if you try to mess with either of my men, I will Cruciatus you into the dirt. Kapiche?"  
  
"Kapiche." Crawford's smile was thin. "No chance of getting you to come back with me, then?"  
  
"None, Jack." Starling's attractive face was set in grim lines. "You know damned well that Krendler and Pearsall and Noonan wanted me gone. They were willing to waste John Brigham and some DC cops just to get me, and they would have wasted you and Ardelia if I'd hung around, just because you two were doing everything you could to protect me. Even if by some miracle we could get the trumped-up charges against me thrown out, that wouldn't get rid of Krendler and his crew. Nope," she said, glancing towards the stairs as she heard Harry leaving his bedroom, "I'm staying here."  
  
"What do you intend to do with yourself, Starling?"  
  
"For right now? Teach Harry everything I know about being an officer of the law. Maybe I can help make him into an Auror, if he wants to be one. And frankly," Clarice said, her eyes locked onto Crawford's, "I wouldn't mind being one myself."  
  
Crawford's lined, worn face broke into a smile. "I'll talk to old Moody and see what I can do. I might have better luck with him than I had with Clint Pearsall."  
  
Clarice's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Thanks, Jack."


	10. The Waiting Game

(Standard disclaimer: Harry and anyone else you recognize from the Potterverse is Jo Rowling's; Clarice and Hannibal and Jack Crawford are, of course, Thomas Harris' creations. CC)  
  
There had been quite a lot to get out of the way before Jack Crawford could resume the task of investigating the Blake-Smiths' deaths, not the least of which was keeping him from killing Dr. Lecter.   
  
At Dumbledore's insistence, Crawford allowed both Dumbledore and Dr. Lecter to sit in on his interviews with Harry concerning his experiences with Voldemort. Crawford insisted on going back over every single one of Harry's contacts, both physical and in dreams, with the former Tom Riddle, Junior and his known minions. It didn't take long before Crawford, whose sheer professional sense had gained the upper hand over his anger, was allowing Lecter to control the course of questioning. Jack was reminded, yet again, of why he had been forced time and again to seek out the doctor's aid when it came to catching criminals; Crawford was brilliant, but Lecter was simply in a whole other dimension, one no other mortal shared.  
  
Two things greatly enhanced their efforts: Harry's newly-created memory palace, and the use of Dumbledore's Pensieve. With the information in Harry's head neatly organized in the mental construct of the memory palace, the retrieval of said information was made quite easy. The Pensieve made it easier to analyze Harry's retrieved thoughts and memories, even the painful ones.   
  
A basement room of Offhand Manor was turned into an FBI-style evidence room. Artifacts of Voldemort and of various known Death Eaters, together with the magical photographs and videotapes Crawford took of Harry's thoughts as they floated in the Pensieve, decorated the room.   
  
There was a picture of Professor Snape's arm, showing the Dark Mark, as he bared it to a disbelieving Fudge. Another showed Professor Quirrell in front of the Mirror of Erised, trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone. Yet still others showed Peter Pettigrew, both as human and as Wormtail, and Crawford hoped to use them later to help prove that Harry's godfather Sirius was wrongly convicted. This was rather handy, as Sirius turned up again shortly after Crawford arrived at Offhand Manor. Other photographs showed things such as Barty Crouch, Junior, both as Alastor Moody and as himself.   
  
Added to all this were reports coming in from the Ministry of Magic surveillance teams that had been sent out to keep watch on the known Death Eater families, such as the Notts and the Malfoys -- and most especially the Malfoys.   
  
If Harry had been told two months earlier that he would soon be capable, not merely of remembering his most horrible memories with crystal clarity, but of having the detachment to pore over them willingly in the search for clues concerning his enemy, he would never have believed it. But the professionalism of Dumbledore, Crawford, Lecter and Starling had rubbed off onto Harry; he knew that all four of them had seen horrors at least equal to the worst of his own experience, and yet had the ability to deal with them with a clear and objective mind.  
  
It was the shared and considered opinion of Dumbledore, Crawford, Lecter and Starling that Voldemort's hand had been forced prematurely, and that Voldemort might soon be compelled to act much sooner than he wished, simply because he was about to be flushed from cover in any event. With thousands of law enforcement personnel, Muggle and magical, combing the British countryside in the wake of Bruce Blake's murder, it would be very difficult for an operation as large as Voldemort's to stay hidden for very much longer. Accordingly, Arthur Weasley and Alastor Moody were alerted to be ready for a major move on Voldemort's part.  
  
The question was: Where would he strike?  
  
===========  
  
Igor Karkaroff's eyes were glazed over with fear and the anticipation of a painful death.  
  
Despite his best efforts at concealment, somehow, he had been discovered and brought to Voldemort.   
  
A very angry Voldemort.  
  
Karkaroff had spent the interval between his capture and his being brought before Lord Voldemort in the crafting of the speech he planned to recite, explaining how he, Igor Karkaroff, had only pretended to turn traitor. But his plan evaporated within seconds of seeing Voldemort's newly-reembodied self; Karkaroff knew, as he tried to meet that terrible stare, that nothing he could say or do would save his miserable hide. And, as he glanced around the cavern and met the stony faces of his former comrades, he knew that he could expect no mercy from them, either.  
  
It was that horrible knowledge that caused him to lose his self-control, staining brown the bottom part of his robes even as he groveled on his hands and knees in one last, desperately hysterical attempt at appeasing Voldemort through abject self-abasement.  
  
Nagini hissed mockingly as Karkaroff cowered before Voldemort, all shreds of his dignity gone even before the first whispered Pain Curse left Voldemort's lips. This was going to be most enjoyable, she thought. A pity he looks to be such a weakling; he might die of sheer fright before we have a chance to fully enjoy the recreation he provides.  
  
And indeed, Karkaroff did indeed die of fright, a mere hour and a half into the festivities. Voldemort's disappointment at this was so strong that it woke Harry up from what had been a very sound sleep.  
  
Yet another memory went into the Pensieve; yet another photograph was added to the evidence collection.  
  
And on both sides, the waiting and plotting continued.


	11. The Hogwarts Express

(Standard disclaimer: Jo Rowling owns Harry Potter and everything else you recognize from her books. Thomas Harris owns everyone and everything you recognize from his books. All else is mine. CC)  
  
On the morning of the first day of the new Hogwarts year, Harry drove the Jaguar with a firm yet light touch, with an approving Dr. Lecter in the passenger's seat, to King's Cross Station.  
  
It had been decided to allow Harry to travel to school via the Hogwarts Express, in order to preserve the necessary illusion of normality -- and also in the hopes of tricking Voldemort into thinking that Fudge's head-in-the-sand opinions still prevailed at the Ministry, even though Fudge himself was gone.   
  
Once at King's Cross, Harry dexterously slid the car into a safe parking spot, then, with the help of Dr. Lecter, transferred his baggage to a cart. Hedwig hooted softly as her cage was set atop the new trunks Dr. Lecter had bought for Harry earlier that week.  
  
"Keep in touch with me, Harry," Dr. Lecter said, indicating with a nod of his head the magically-adapted pager and cellphone at Harry's belt, hidden under his Muggle jacket. "I expect things to be interesting."  
  
And with that, Dr. Lecter watched as Harry pushed the cart towards the boundary and vanished.  
  
==========  
  
There was an air of tension on the train, a tension most keenly felt by those students who had an inkling of what was about to happen.  
  
Hermione and Ron had already found a compartment, and Harry gladly joined them in it as the train pulled from the station. Hermione had cast a Rhubarb spell at the entrance of the compartment; anyone listening in from outside the closed door would hear nothing but knock-knock jokes and particularly boring Quidditch discussions.  
  
In a hushed voice, Ron was filling in his friends with the latest from the Ministry. "That attack that Dumbledore and Dr. Reader were predicting is about to happen," he said, as Harry and Hermione listened with grim, set faces. "You know that surveillance team old Mad-Eye's been running? Well, they've found out that Voldemort's planning to send a contingent of Death Eaters and dementors to attack the train to take for hostages as many persons as possible. Some of the Death Eaters may well be on the train."  
  
"And I'll bet Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle are among them," Harry murmured darkly. "Why do they want hostages? What's the ransom?"  
  
"Azkaban. Voldemort wants his followers freed, so he can put them to work for him again."  
  
"That makes sense," Hermione put in. "The dementors alone won't be enough -- there are too many powerful wizards on our side who can deal with them." She smiled at Harry as she said this.  
  
"You know, it's not as if we don't have some reinforcements of our own," Harry grinned. "Uncloak yourself, Lucy."  
  
And in the middle of the compartment, a smiling Lucy Stellanova suddenly doffed her Invisibility Cloak.  
  
Both Ron and Hermione shot up from their seats.   
  
"Lucy! What are you doing here?!?" Ron demanded.  
  
"Like Harry said: I'm one of the reinforcements. Sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, but it was imperative that I not be seen entering the train. And I'm going to cloak myself again soon; I'm going to be exiting this compartment soon to scope out the rest of this carriage."  
  
"But you've only been studying magic for two months! How can you face down a dementor?"  
  
Lucy's smile didn't dim one bit. "I've had an intensive course of study, shall we say," she said as she pulled out her cellphone and pressed the vibra-page button. "Hold on a sec -- I have to check in with the other team members on the train." She held the cellphone to her ear, waiting for an answer to her page. It must have come, because after a few moments she spoke into the cellphone. "Goldilocks reporting to Team Leader. Athos and Porthos have been briefed by Aramis; I'm waltzing Matilda until ordered otherwise. Affirmative, Team Leader. Over and out."  
  
Hermione had a hard time trying not to guffaw. "So Ron is Aramis?" she sniggered.  
  
"Yupper. And you're Porthos, and Harry is Athos."   
  
"Are you calling me an Athos?" Harry said in mock anger.  
  
"Nothing we didn't already know," Hermione said, shaking with laughter as Harry gently cuffed her.  
  
"What's an Aramis?" said Ron, who was totally at sea.  
  
"One of the Three Muskeeters," said Lucy, once again donning her Invisibility Cloak. "Hermione can tell you all about it. We're going on the assumption that most British Death Eaters -- even assuming they can trace cellphone transmissions, which I doubt -- aren't familiar with French Muggle authors like Alexandre Dumas pére."  
  
"Or with Aussie Muggle slang," snickered Hermione. "Let me escort you to the billabong, Lucy. It'll look strange to see the door to the compartment open for no apparent reason."  
  
"Good idea," said Lucy. "When you get back, take turns patrolling the car with Ron and Harry. Pretend you all have a bad case of loose bowels or something -- school jitters or whatever. Make sure everyone else in the car is okay; offer them chocolate if need be." With that, she passed out a supply of Chocolate Frogs to each of them. "I'll be in the carriage somewhere with you. Make an excuse to open the compartment door in five minutes; I have to report back to Crawford at that time, and I can't do it out in the open."  
  
"Jack Crawford's the Team Leader?" Harry said, surprised.  
  
"Yupper. Dumbledore's over at Azkaban with Ron's dad and the better part of the MOM crew. They're expecting the heavier attack to happen over there. The Death Eaters think that a train full of kids will be far easier pickings, so they're not putting quite as much effort into the train attack." Lucy chuckled. "Little do they know."  
  
Hermione got up to open the door. "Ready, Lucy?"  
  
"Ready."  
  
"All right, then," she said, and turned the door handle.  
  
===========  
  
Nothing much happened for the next forty-five minutes. The Three Musketeers, with Lucy silently and invisibly observing, took turns going up and down the carriage, handing out chocolate to those students who looked most in need of it, while avoiding, for the time being, the compartment occupied by Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. Lucy had made the first few of her scheduled checks with Crawford.  
  
Suddenly, there was a loud bang towards the front of the train. The carriage shuddered, but the train kept moving. Bright flashes of light could be seen at the front by the engine.  
  
Draco Malfoy, followed by Crabbe and Goyle, burst forth from their compartment, wands out and pointed. "Victory for Voldemort! Death to the Mudbloods!" they shrieked, as they opened up a compartment containing a group of terrified first-years.  
  
And that was as far as they got before an invisible voice behind them cried out "Stupefy!"   
  
Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle all fell down as if they'd been pole-axed. Lucy, still invisible, followed up with the Binding Charm and had them trussed up and gagged before they hit the floor as the first-years looked on, goggle-eyed.  
  
Another compartment opened up. Marcus Flint popped out; he had graduated from Hogwarts years before, but was apparently part of the Death Eater's contingent that was assigned to attack from inside the train itself. Flint was ready to strike for Voldemort -- but his resolve evaporated at the sight of Malfoy and his friends helpless on the carriage floor. He was about to turn and run when the invisible Lucy Stunned him as well.  
  
Lucy waited a space for any other sudden bursts from concealment. Then, using the vibra-page feature on her cellphone, she silently summoned Harry from the compartment he shared with Ron and Hermione.  
  
"Help me move these clowns into an empty compartment," she whispered. "I haven't mastered the Levitation charm yet. Ron, Hermione -- you keep watch on the rest of the carriage while Harry and I stow this baggage."  
  
Once the junior Death Eaters were locked away, Lucy and the Musketeers went over the carriage, compartment by compartment. Finally, satisified that they had captured all the Death Eaters on that particular carriage, the still-invisible Lucy entered the Musketeers' compartment to wait for the five-minute vibra-ping from Team Leader. This ping meant that it was safe for her to contact Crawford. If Crawford didn't ping her pager every five minutes, and exactly at the five-minute mark, she was to assume he was in trouble and needed help up at the front of the train.  
  
Four-fifty-eight... four-fifty-nine....   
  
Lucy's cellphone vibrated in her invisible hand. She breathed an audible sigh as she put it to her mouth.  
  
"Goldilocks reporting in, Team Leader. Green Carriage is secure. Need me anywhere else?"  
  
"Negative, Goldilocks. They tried stopping the train, but we have the situation in hand. Soon we'll be able to end the Red Alert."  
  
"Acknowledged, Team Leader. Over and out."  



	12. The Once and Future Teacher

(Standard disclaimer: Jo Rowling owns everyone you recognize from her books; Thomas Harris owns everyone you recognize from his books. All else is mine, such as it is. Edited 07/24/01. CC)  
  
The rest of the journey was relatively uneventful.  
  
The first-years in Harry's carriage consumed about thirty Chocolate Frogs between them before they started feeling normal again. The dementors may not have had the chance to get beyond the front of the train, but their collective presence had still been disquieting. One little boy ate so many Chocolate Frogs that he became sick at his stomach; Hermione barely got him to the carriage loo in time to prevent him from inadvertently redecorating the walls of his compartment.  
  
The dimpled lady with the cart came by and served out lunch; soon, the resilient first-years were munching away on cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties, their experience with Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle already half-forgotten. Ron and Hermione taught them to play Exploding Snap, and before long the sounds of chattering and laughter filled the carriage.  
  
Lucy kept on her invisibility cloak, even after Crawford ended the Red Alert. She didn't prowl about the carriage, but instead sat in the Three Musketeers' compartment and reported in to Crawford every five minutes on her cellphone. There was nothing further to report, other than that everything was under control.  
  
Crawford, on the other hand, had things to report to her, things that had to be told to Harry, Ron and Hermione.   
  
"When the train stops at Hogsmeade Station, make sure none of the first-years goes anywhere near the front of the train," Lucy said. "Hustle them up the path and over to the boats as soon as possible; we'll be taking them over ourselves. There's nothing dangerous up there now -- not anymore -- but it's not a pretty sight. Not something they should have as their first memory of Hogwarts."  
  
"We'll be taking them over the lake ourselves?" cried a surprised Hermione. "Where's Hagrid?"  
  
"He and Madame Maxime haven't returned from visiting the giants just yet," Lucy said in a carefully controlled voice.   
  
Harry wished Lucy-Clarice wasn't wearing the cloak, so he could see her face. She was hiding something from them, he was certain of it. "Any word from them?", he asked, trying to sound as casual as he could.  
  
"I don't know," Lucy said in a similarly casual voice; Harry was sure she wasn't telling all she knew. "I haven't heard, myself. But in any event, we'll be there to take the kids across. I'll uncloak as soon as everything is in hand at the platform, and join you all in the boats after I check in with Jack and drop off Malfoy and his buddies with him. We're going to be unloading the carriages one at a time, starting from the rear, and loading up the boats as we go; with luck, by the time we get the last of the carriages emptied, they may have had enough time to hose off the front of the train with Scouring Charms. It seems that dementors don't die very nicely," she finished, in a tone that made Harry and his friends shudder.  
  
By this time, the sun had set; the carriage lights came on, and Harry thought he could almost smell the lake off in the distance. The Ministry must have grabbed onto every competent wizard they could find to fight off the twin attacks, Harry reckoned, if they were so short-handed they were going to rely on Lucy and a trio of fifth-years to guide the boats.  
  
Soon they were at the platform in Hogsmeade Station. Their carriage was in the middle of the train, so it took a while before they were finally given the signal to depart via cellphone.   
  
When Crawford finally cleared them to leave, Lucy finally doffed her cloak. "Saddle up, everyone," she said, wand in hand, as she exited the compartment she had shared with Harry, Ron and Hermione. "Let's get these dogies rolling."  
  
Carefully avoiding the front of the train, they herded the students, gently yet quickly, along the darkly wooded path and into the waiting boats; as she said she would, Lucy stayed behind to dispose of Malfoy, Flint, Crabbe and Goyle.  
  
Once all the Death Eaters had been hauled away, Lucy came to join Harry, Ron and Hermione. A wizard was with her, one that all three of them immediately recognized.  
  
"Remus!" they shouted together, and ran to gang-tackle their beloved, smiling Professor Lupin.  
  
"Easy, now, easy!" Remus cried out as the Three Musketeers nearly smothered him in a group hug. "I'm a delicate old man prone to having the vapors, you know," he said laughingly as he brushed himself off. He was wearing elegant new robes and towed behind him a new trunk very similar to Harry's own, which led Harry to make a quick deduction:  
  
"I take it you know Lucy and Dr. Reader, Remus?"  
  
Remus broke into a broad, warm smile. "I do indeed, Harry. They've been most kind to me, as I see they have been to you." He stood back at bit, taking in Harry from head to toe. "You're becoming a fine figure of a young man, Harry. Your parents would be proud of you."   
  
"Are you coming back to teach, Remus?" asked Hermione eagerly.  
  
"I certainly am," beamed Remus. "The once and future Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," he announced as Ron and Harry pounded him gleefully on the back.   
  
Remus suddenly straightened up. "Well, enough of that. We've got work to do. Ready, Lucy?"  
  
"Ready, Remus."  
  
"Then away we go," said Remus, leading them off to the boats and the start of a new term.  
  
  
  
(....Here endeth Part Two of Harry Potter and the Memory Palace. Part Three, The War, will start sometime this weekend. Take care! Catherine Cook)  
  



End file.
